


House of the Lost Ones

by lady_wordsmith



Series: Steve's Diary Tetralogy [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreams vs. Reality, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Mentions of Suicide, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Character Death, Reader-Insert, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-06-07 07:50:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6795472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_wordsmith/pseuds/lady_wordsmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months after <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/6645403">Second Chances</a>, You're still in therapy, still grieving, only now there's more restrictions in the name of your personal safety. You're fighting to navigate the world on your own terms, fighting to grieve the way you want, and just be treated like a person who can make their own decisions.<br/>Then the dreams begin. Are they a remnant or side-effect of your previous experience? Are they sinister or benevolent? Just what is happening to you?</p><p>(The final chronological part of the Steve's Diary Tetralogy. Mind the tags as they're added.)</p><p>*ON INDEFINITE HIATUS*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

“With all due respect, _fuck_ you, Dr. Markinswell.” You stood up, glaring at your psychiatrist as you did. “Fuck you, fuck everyone who thinks I’m broken, and you know _what_? Fuck Steve, too.”

You turned and walked toward the door. Dr. Markinswell tries to stop you but you’re out the door and down the hall before that bastard can make so much as a squeak.

You won’t be seeing that asshole again. He’s the latest in a long line of mental health professionals you have working as a “team” on your “treatment,” but you hate his guts. He was only added to the lineup after the whole incident with HYDRA hooking you up to that freaky machine, because everyone thought you were broken and fucked in the head.

You hadn’t meant to say what you did when Nat and Wanda got you unhooked. You had just been confused, addled, and uncertain you weren’t in some other screwed-up nightmare world worse than the last. It didn’t matter; it got you another shrink you saw three times a week, anyway.

You weren’t even allowed to be alone for a second anymore, either. You were sure Markinswell had called Sam or Nat as soon as you had bolted, and pretty soon everyone would be on high alert looking for you. You’ve made it out of the building and thrown your cell phone in the trash, but you know your time alone is limited.

It pisses you off. You’re not going to jump off a building or throw yourself off a bridge. They even took your .38 away because they thought you couldn’t be trusted. That had pissed you off, it was something that reminded you of Steve (admittedly, it was weird that it did but that was because the two of you had bought it together and he taught you how to shoot it, so it only made sense) and they took it because they thought you were interested in seeing your brains splatter against the wall.

If you didn’t kill yourself when miscarriage after miscarriage happened, you weren’t going to do it now.  Never mind all the things you had seen before you even met Steve. It was a wonder you hadn’t been a raging alcoholic when you met him. He may have been the subject of a puff piece you wrote, but you were still a serious journalist then, who had seen and documented things that would make lesser people cry and puke. You did it without batting an eyelash.

But people think Steve and the miscarriages are what fucked you up? Bitch, please.

You walk into a bookstore near Markinswell’s office. It was either that or the coffeeshop, but you were never going near another coffeeshop again, fuck that, No Sir. You nod hello to the clerk and politely decline her help.

You travel the rows of books for a while, taking in the titles and subjects without really seeing them. You used to read a lot, but with the recent restricting and babying of you, everything had to be vetted these days, which made you lose your enthusiasm. You couldn’t even read books about subjects you had previously covered in your work; a recent autobiography by an army veteran you had interviewed years ago had come out, and you had been told that Dr. Markinswell and your “team,” along with a few of the Avengers, had decided the book wasn’t a good thing for you to be reading in your “fragile state.”

Whatever. You probably knew all the stories in that book anyway, in more vivid detail than the book describes. You remember seeing the guy years ago at a writing conference (shortly after your engagement, so you had brought Steve along), and he told you that publishers were interested but wanted him to tone it down, which made you and Steve laugh politely with the guy at the absurdity.

The book’s there, all right, in the best seller section. You pick it up, but you don’t open it because you’re not some savage who does that to unbought books. It looks as bland and cheesy a front and back cover as you expected the publishers to create, but the description on the back draws you in.

If you were allowed to walk around with money, you’d buy it and try to smuggle it into your apartment, no question.

You hear someone call your name and you sigh, putting the book down regretfully. You turn, seeing Bucky and Sam.

“You can’t make me go back to that shrink.” You tell them, your voice calmer than you really feel. “He’s an asshole.”

Bucky doesn’t do anything, but Sam nods.

“We can discuss it back at your place.” He tells you, but you shake your head.

“You’ll decide for me, you mean. All of you. None of you allow me to make any decisions anymore. I’m not a child.” You say.

Sam sighs. “Not here, okay? I promise you, we will discuss it, just you and me and Buck here. Right, Buck?”

Sam looks over to Bucky for support, but Bucky only looks from you to Sam and actually rolls his eyes.

“She’s right, Sam. Markinswell is a hack. Besides, three days a week for two hours at a clip? Give the girl a little freedom.” He says, before turning to you. “Doesn’t mean you can just run off whenever you feel like it, princess. You need to talk to people without running off.”

“I’ve been talking for a year and a half, and look where it’s gotten me. Mental patients have more freedom than I do.” You tell him.

Bucky nods and then turns to Sam, shrugging as if to say “I’ve got nothing.” Between that and Sam’s pissed off glare, you’d probably laugh in any other situation than this.

“Look, you just take her home, alright, Sam? No big decisions today. Just get her home and I’ll keep a watch on her when I get back and we can all talk tomorrow.” Bucky says.

Sam raises an eyebrow, but Bucky quickly and gently walks over to you and takes your arm. As he walks you over to Sam, he gives you a questioning look and you nod back. You get it, he’s asking if you’ll go with Sam and behave yourself. At least Bucky’s not so bad, most of the time.

You and Sam leave Bucky at the bookstore and Sam takes you home. He tries to talk to you but you put the television on and ignore him. Soon enough, Bucky comes back and he and Sam leave you to have a quiet discussion somewhere in your apartment that you can’t hear them. Sam leaves and Bucky comes back. Bucky doesn’t try and make you talk and lets you go to bed when you say you’re tired.

On your nightstand in your bedroom is the book you were eyeing in the bookstore. You look over at your bedroom door, in the direction of your living room, but decide against testing your luck and asking Bucky about it.

The book has a sticky note attached to the cover. **Hide this somewhere no one will look**. You smile in spite of yourself and nod to no one, putting the book back on the nightstand as you get ready for bed. Once you’re in bed, you grab the book again and begin reading, a small smile on your face.


	2. The First Dream

“-I’m pretty sure it falls under false imprisonment, anyway. I may not know law, but I do know a few things. I know some of them probably think I don’t have the good sense God gave a goose, but I’m sure what they’re doing isn’t legal by any stretch.”

You look up at your therapist and face an empty chair.

“For fuck’s sake…” you sigh, standing up only to feel dizzy and sink back down.

“You’re doing well, I think.” Your eyes drift to the doorway, and it’s odd, how distant you feel from your emotions, when you realize Steve is standing there.

“Pretty sure you’re dead and can’t make any judgments.” You retort back, which elicits a grin from Steve.

“You’re not _wrong_. What they’re doing… well, I wouldn’t stand for it if I was in your position.” He says, walking over and sitting in the chair next to yours, the one that’s usually empty during your appointments.

“You could pummel them all to a pulp,” you tell him. “You kinda have one up on me, there, Steve.”

You’re not sure why you’re not angry and screaming. The last time you saw Steve, both for real and in that hellish illusionscape, you were yelling at him, or at the very least raising your voice and forcing a confrontation. The whole thing feels hazy, anyway.

“Okay, point. You can’t use something you don’t have. But you’re forgetting what you do have.” He tells you, and as you look into his eyes, you can see that spark of fondness he always had whenever you caught him looking at you. At the same time, there’s a strange fire and determination you’d only seen in photos and in the middle of battle.

“Crippling depression? A bunch of useless journalism awards? A defective uterus?”

The frown Steve gives you tells you he’s in no mood for your attempts at humor. Fair enough, you’re not in the mood for it, either.

“Think. About all those situations you told me about that even bear a passing resemblance to this one. What did you do then?”

Steve reaches over and takes your hand, bringing it to his lips before letting your intertwined hands rest in his lap.

“I miss you.” You tell him, feeling tears at the edges of your vision.

“I know,” he tells you. His voice isn’t cold or emotionless, but there’s a distance that you can’t place or name. Perhaps death removes something from you when you visit your living loved ones, you think; it mutes your emotions so that your loved ones don’t give in to grief knowing that you miss them just as much as they miss you.

“Is it… How is it, where you are?” you ask him.

Steve gives you a small, sad smile.

“You know I can’t tell you that, darlin’. We’ve talked about this.”

You nod in spite of yourself. Of course you’ve talked about it. You don’t remember it, but you know this conversation has taken place before.

“I’m thinking about leaving New York.” You tell him. “Going back home. My nan left us… left _me_ that nice cabin in the High Country, near Blowing Rock. I always thought it was a nice place to live.”

“Until tourist season.” Steve retorts, and for a second, it feels like old times, before everything.

“Oh, hush, you.” You sigh and close your eyes, rolling your head to rest against the back of the chair. “I could write a book there. About my travels. Maybe a novel or two.” You look up at Steve. “Maybe I should try my hand at fiction. If I can even get away.”

“You can get away, honey. Think about what you have to use, and use it.” Steve tells you.

It’s quiet for a spell, just you and Steve sitting in the chairs and Steve holding your hand. You close your eyes and rest your head against the hair back again, deep in thought.

“Why are they doing this to me?” you ask Steve. “You think they would have learned, after…”

You wave a hand and trail off. Steve knows what you mean, anyway. The mess with the Accords. The parallels there are striking.

“I have to save myself, Steve. But how?” You open your eyes and look over at Steve, not raising your head. His eyes meet yours and he gives you a small, reassuring smile.

“Am I talking to an empty room, here?” he asks you, his smile light and his voice teasing. “What resources do you have?”

“Besides my brains, not much.” Steve shakes his head at your response.

“So use those brains of yours, darlin’. Think about what else you have. Use the resources at your disposal and I promise, you’ll be wherever it is you want.”

“Even if it’s not New York?” you ask, raising your head and looking at Steve. His smile fades for a moment as he shakes his head again.

“If you need to get away, then so be it.”

“I’m running. It’s been a year and a half, Steve. I should be over… I should be getting over you. If nothing else, things should be changed.” You tell him. “The apartment’s still the same. It’s like… like a…”

“A tomb?” he asks. You frown at him.

“A mausoleum. Mausoleums are bigger and fancier.” You tell him.

“And I warrant one of those?”

“Yes, you do. One of the ones my granddad used to tell us about, back in Louisiana. Big and creepy and a damn shrine, that apartment. I _hate_ it.” You confess.

Steve nods, and it makes you angry, how he just sits there and lets you insult him, insult the life you built together.

“You ever think I might want you to move on?” Steve asks. You look away from him, but he reaches one of those big hands of his and touches your face, gently guiding you back to look him in the eye. “I don’t want you mourning me forever, baby. You had an entire life before me, right? And I get you thought we’d have a lot longer time together, we both thought that. But I’m gone now.”

“You’re right here.” You whisper, and your voice breaks just slightly as tears come to your eyes.

“This is just a dream, honey. The only place I exist for you now.” Steve wipes your tears away, and you can see a sad smile gracing his face. “You’re going to have a great life, darlin’, even if I’m not there, I promise.”

You blink, and in the short fraction of a second that your eyes are closed, Steve has disappeared. You cry out his name and look around, but the office you had been standing in seems to fade. You’re standing somewhere different now, at one end of a long hallway with multiple doors on either side of you.

“Steve? Steve!” you cry out again, and you frantically begin opening and closing doors.

The scenes in the rooms are strange. In one room, there is a nursery, with a couple in shadows holding a baby. You can hear them laughing and whispering, though you can’t hear anything distinctly. In another room, you find yourself in a large auditorium, obviously some kind of awards ceremony. Despite the fact you have loudly interrupted the proceedings, no one seems to take any notice of you. Again, the people in the room seem to be made of shadows. In another room, a shadow person is typing away of a computer, humming a tune that seems familiar to you but you can’t place it. In another room, a bunch of shadow people are gathered around a circular kitchen table and it seems they are laughing and talking over drinks and food.

More rooms. More shadow people. An infinite amount of indistinct chatter. You finally reach the last door, all the way at the other end of the hall. By this time, you have stopped calling for Steve, but you’re still frantic, still trying to reach him.

As you open the door, a bright light engulfs you, and you scream.

**Author's Note:**

> Just getting ahead of the reviewers... No Bucky/Reader here (I got some asks on tumblr after Second Chances about this, too). He simply doesn't agree with the way the Reader Character is being treated (maybe because he thinks it's unnecessary, maybe because she is Steve's widow, who knows?), and it's not out of any romantic affection on his part (come on, guys, she was married to his best friend. No. Just... No.)


End file.
